The Truth About Love (14 page)

“Eventually, however, I emerged, and went about again…and that was when I realized what people were thinking—that
I’d
pushed Mama to her death. When I first realized, I laughed, it struck me as so nonsensical. I couldn’t believe anyone would credit it. I assumed it was one of those silly notions that flare, then fade…only it didn’t.”

Jacqueline heard the strength building in her voice, felt again the upswell of hurt and, even more, the anger that had followed it, that fueled her determination to see her plan through. She looked up. “By the time I realized that, it was too late. I tried to speak with my father, but he refused to discuss the subject. The others were the same—the Frithams, even Mrs. Elcott, who’ll normally talk about anything. She was the one who made me understand what was going on—that the reason they all wished the subject of Mama’s death closed, deemed an accident and forgotten, was because they all believed that any examination of the facts would point to me.”

She drew breath, and more evenly stated, “They think they’re protecting me. The only people who believe in my innocence are Millicent, Jordan and Eleanor. The other younger people weren’t aware or involved, so they don’t have any real opinion, but everyone else…we’ve tried, but none of us can get the subject mentioned, let alone discussed!”

Frustration rang in her tone; Gerrard squeezed her fingers. “So while you were in deep mourning, essentially cut off, you were tried, found guilty—and then absolved, with the incident to be buried.”

“Yes!” She thought for a moment, then amended, “Well, no, not quite. Everyone around has known me all my life—they don’t
want
to believe I’m guilty. But they fear I am, so they’ve decided to avoid the question altogether. They don’t want to look at who killed Mama because they’re afraid they’ll find it was me, so they’ve declared her death an accident, and are determined to leave well enough alone.”

“But you don’t want it left alone.”

“No!” She shot him a glance—wondered, fleetingly, why she felt she could be so open, so direct, so unguarded with him. “Mama’s death
wasn’t
an accident. But until I can convince them it wasn’t
me
who pushed her over the balustrade, they won’t look for who did.”

She saw in his eyes that he understood. After a moment, she went on, her gaze locked with his, “Jordan and Eleanor gave up, but Millicent and I—we kept thinking. We had to find a way to make people question the notion that’s become embedded in their brains—that it was me. We thought of a portrait. If it was good enough to show my innocence clearly…it was the only way we could think of to open people’s eyes.”

His eyes narrowed, steady on hers. “So having me paint you was your idea.”

She shook her head. “The idea of the portrait was ours. Millicent took months to seed the notion into my father’s head. For him, a portrait was a viable way forward—if it shows me guilty, he’ll hide it away; even if someone finds it, it’s not proof, not real proof that can convict someone of a crime. To him, a portrait is the only way to end his…well, his misery. He loves me, but he loved Mama even more, and he’s torn by thinking I killed her—and yet not knowing.”

Her voice had thickened; clearing her throat, she went on, “Entirely fortuitously through her correspondents in town, Millicent heard of the Academy’s exhibition and your portraits—the information seemed godsent. She suggested your name to Papa.” She paused, then added, “You know the rest.”

Gerrard held her gaze for a moment longer, then straightened; looking out across the regimented rows of olive trees, he leaned back against the edge of the fountain. The stone was cold across his shoulders; the sensation helped to anchor him, to help him re-form his view of what, precisely, was going on at Hellebore Hall.

So much more than he’d imagined when he’d accepted the commission to paint Lord Tregonning’s daughter.

What she’d told him…he didn’t doubt it was the truth. Not only was he sure she couldn’t successfully lie to him, what she’d said explained so much he hadn’t understood, like Tregonning’s position—invidious indeed—and his choice of the way forward, and the attitude of others toward Jacqueline. And hers to them.

He’d held her hand throughout; the feel of her fingers, slim and slender under his, helped settle his thoughts, and focus his mind in the right direction. Forward. “What are you expecting to happen once the portrait is painted and shown?” He glanced at her, caught her gaze. “Once people start to question the circumstances of your mother’s death, won’t they think…” He paused, then rephrased, “Couldn’t the answer be suicide?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No—no one who knew Mama would even suggest it. She loved life, loved living. She wouldn’t have suddenly decided she no longer wished to.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. No one has ever raised that prospect, not even though, believing me guilty yet not wanting it to be so, they’d grasp at any straw, even that.” She straightened, briefly searched his face. “Until I—we—convince them it wasn’t me, that it’s all right—safe if you like—to look for Mama’s killer, they won’t. And the real killer will remain free.”

Looking into her eyes, he grasped the point she knew, but had thus far not stated. “Your mother’s killer is still here—he’s someone you know.”

She held his gaze steadily. “He must be. You’ve seen the estate. It’s not easy to slip in undetected, not unless you know the place, and there were no gypsies or suspicious outsiders in the area when she died.”

He looked away, across the garden, still, silent and eerily beautiful under the now waning moon. A moment passed, then he felt her fingers tense within his hand, lightly grip. He turned his head, met her gaze, darkly shadowed in the night.

“You will paint my portrait, won’t you?”

How could he refuse?

She angled her head, brows arching, faintly challenging. “Can you do it? Paint me that well that my innocence will show?”

“Yes.” He had absolutely no doubt he could.

She drew a breath, held it, then quietly said, “I can understand your resistance to being manipulated into being an unwitting judge, but at my request, could you agree to being a witting one?”

He held her gaze, let a moment tick by purely out of habit; he didn’t need to think. “If you truly wish it, then yes. I will.”

She smiled.

“There will, however, be a price.”

Her brows rose, this time in surprise, but, her eyes searching his, she didn’t confuse his “price” with his commission. “What?”

He didn’t know—he didn’t even know what had prompted him to utter the words, but he wasn’t about to take them back. “I’m not certain, yet.”

She held his gaze, then calmly replied, “Let me know when you are.”

Desire lanced through him. From her tone, low and faintly sultry, he couldn’t tell whether she was deliberately challenging him, or simply meeting
his
challenge with her usual directness.

She drew breath and evenly continued, “Until then…I’ll do whatever you ask, tell you anything you wish, sit for however many hours you want—just as long as you paint me as I truly am so that everyone will know I’m not my mother’s murderer.”

“Done.” He held her gaze for an instant longer, then lifted the hand he held to his lips. He brushed a kiss to her knuckles, watched the slight shiver she fought to suppress, then turned her hand and, watching her still, deliberately pressed a much more intimate kiss to her palm.

And had the satisfaction of seeing her lids fall, of sensing her irrepressible response.

She was the quintessential damsel in distress and she’d asked him to be her champion; as such, he was entitled to her favor.

But he’d yet to decide what he wanted from her, and they were in the middle of an open garden. Reining in his impulses, with her unusually strong, unexpectedly definite, he rose, drew her to her feet, and escorted her back into the house.

H
ell’s bells—what a coil!” Barnaby paused to study Gerrard’s face. “Can you truly do that—paint innocence?”

“Yes, but don’t ask how.” Sprawled in an armchair, waiting while Barnaby dressed for the day, Gerrard looked out at the sunlit gardens, at the lightly ruffling canopies. “It’s not so much a finite quality, as something that shines through in the absence of aspects that dim or tarnish it, like guilt and evil. In this case, given the effect the crime has had on Jacqueline, it’ll be a case of painting all she is, of getting the balance of the different elements right so that it’s plain what isn’t there.”

“The evil necessary to commit matricide?”

“Precisely.”

Seeing Barnaby loading his pockets with the paraphernalia he always carried—not just the usual gentlemanly things like handkerchief, watch and coin purse, but a pencil and notepad, string, and pocketknife—Gerrard rose. “In the circumstances, I want to get started on the portrait straightaway. The sooner I get to grips with it—get down what I need to show and decide how to pull it off—the better.”

The sooner Jacqueline would be free of the haunting of her mother’s death. And the sooner he’d be free, too, although what it was that, courtesy of Lord Tregonning bringing him here, now had him in its grip, he wasn’t sure.

As they left the room, Barnaby shot him a glance. “So you’re committed to this—to doing the portrait and, through that, starting a search for the real killer?”

“Yes.” They started down the corridor; Gerrard looked at Barnaby. “Why do you ask?”

Barnaby met his gaze, for once deadly serious. “Because, dear boy, if that’s your tack, then you really will need me here to watch your back.”

They’d reached the stairs; a noise in the hall below had them both looking down. Jacqueline, unaware of them, crossed the hall, heading for the breakfast parlor. She passed out of sight. In step, they started down.

“And, of course,” Barnaby mused, “someone will need to watch the lovely Miss Tregonning’s back, too.”

Gerrard knew a taunt when he heard one, knew he should resist, yet still he heard himself say, far too definitely to be misconstrued, “That, you may leave to me.”

Suppressed laughter rippled beneath Barnaby’s words. “I was sure you’d feel that way.”

An instant later, however, when they stepped off the stairs and Barnaby glanced at him, all trace of amusement had flown. “All teasing aside, chum, we will need to exercise a degree of alertness. I haven’t learned any more to the point yet, but I’ve heard more than enough to convince me there’s something very odd going on down here.”

H
e wanted to start sketching her immediately, but…

“I’m terribly sorry.” Faint color tinged Jacqueline’s cheeks. “Last evening, Giles Trewarren invited me to ride with him and a few of the others to St. Just this morning—I agreed to meet them at the top of the lane.”

Gerrard could read in her eyes that their discussion of the previous night—all she’d promised in return for his agreement to paint her—was fresh in her mind; she truly was sorry she’d accepted Giles’s invitation.

In light of that, he swallowed the urge to throw a painterly tantrum and insist she spend the day with him, wandering the house and gardens while he drew her out, and captured what showed in quick pencil sketches. The most preliminary of works, there would be many of them before he was satisfied he had the right setting, the right pose, and even more importantly the right expression for the portrait he was determined to create.

His enthusiasm and determination were running high; his commitment was absolute. Despite the success of his portraits of the twins, he was convinced his portrait of Jacqueline would transcend them; it would be the finest thing he’d done to date. His fingers were not just itching, the tips were almost burning with the desire to grip a pencil and wield it.

“I do hope you don’t mind?”

Her hazel eyes declared her sincerity. He inwardly sighed. “Perhaps Mr. Adair and I could accompany you—if you don’t mind?”

She smiled, genuinely relieved. Perhaps genuinely pleased? “That would be perfect. You haven’t seen much of the local area yet, and St. Just is the nearest town.”

Barnaby was happy to go jauntering—happy for the opportunity to talk to more locals and see what he could learn of the mysteries. After breakfast, the three of them met on the terrace, then headed for the stables.

Jacqueline was an accomplished rider; Gerrard inferred as much from the spirited bay mare that was waiting for her at the mounting block. Swinging up to the saddle of the chestnut gelding the stableman had chosen for him, he settled the horse, watching as Jacqueline let her mount prance, let her dance, then deftly brought her alongside.

The instant Barnaby had finished getting acquainted with his mount, a young black, they headed out, Jacqueline in the lead. She left the drive almost immediately, turning onto a grassed track between rolling green fields. Gerrard, watching her, caught the laughing glance she threw over her shoulder, then she touched her heels to the mare’s flanks—and raced ahead.

He was after her in an instant, instinctively, without thought.

With a startled “Whoop!” Barnaby followed.

They thundered over the turf, the rush of their passage converting the mild breeze to a wild wind whistling past their ears, raking through their hair.